#Just thinking about him smiling sadly because Cosette thought he missed one visit when it was actually two

[coolrobotsupremacist]

I was thinking about why I find Valjeans death so much harder to read/deal with than any other fictional death and I've come to the conclusion that it's because while it's a completely preventable death I can't be angry at anyone for causing it.

Marius pushes out Valjean like a total prat but I can't really blame him because he thinks he's protecting(sigh) Cosette and Valjean assassinated his own character in front of him.

Cosette is coping with a completely new situation in life and a fairly all consuming one at that with her marriage to a man she loves, she tries to stay connected to her Father, to reach out to him but between the distractions of her new life and Valjean pressing his self destruct button like a lab rat hooked on dopamine, it's all pretty futile.

And I'd be a sick bastard if I were to blame Valjean whose only acting on decades of built up shame, the constant feeling of unworthness that's dogged him since he turned over a new leaf and his desire to safeguard Cosettes happiness.

In the end its not really anyone's fault which while great from a story perspective, unfortunately means I can't channel my sadness into RAGE and instead must wake in the night and sob futilely.

[missmarionmac]

Alternate Ending-ish to Cinema Vérité

This is the original version of the penultimate scene in Cinema Vérité.

The completed fic is here.

The scene begins the same way as the final version, but diverges a bit later.

Grantaire can’t remember ever seeing clouds like this in Los Angeles. The sky is dark, angry, threatening. There’s an edge of danger in the air, and it makes him uneasy.

It’s a Friday. Grantaire has some meetings at studios in the morning, and gets home around three.

The rain starts in earnest right as Grantaire starts eating dinner.

Grantaire had briefly considered going out and raising hell with some friends, but this weather is better for staying in with a beer and trying to find reasons to turn down every role his agent wants him to consider.

He’s sprawled on the couch, channel-surfing, pointedly ignoring the pile of scripts on the coffee table, when the doorbell rings. He takes a sip of beer and turns the volume up. Someone obviously has the wrong address—he’s certainly not expecting anyone.

It rings again, followed by a persistent knock.

Bloody hell.

He launches himself to his feet, groaning, and shuffles to the door. He pulls it open. It had better not be a fucking axe murderer or some shit.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Enjolras shivers. “Hello to you too.”

Grantaire opens the door wider and beckons Enjolras in. “Jesus Meryl Christ, did you walk here? I’m going to have to have a chat with the security folks about allowing in the riff-raff.”

“I’m very persuasive. I may have convinced him that it was a medical emergency.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Like I need an excuse to drop by and visit a costar and friend?”

Grantaire snorts. Enjolras shakes his head vigorously, trying to rid himself of some of the water clinging to his hair. Small drops splatter all over Grantaire’s foyer.

“You’re not exactly the ‘dropping by’ type. And I wouldn’t exactly say that we’re friends.”

“So I wanted to see you. Is that a problem?”

“Why?”

“I miss you.”

“You know, they have these marvelous things called phones. You can call people, you can even send little written messages. With words. And little cartoon representations of things. It’s terrific. You should try it sometime.”

“It’s not the same,” Enjolras whispers, gazing intently at the floor.

“The same as what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. I just know that I miss you, and I just… I needed to see you.”

Grantaire is fighting the urge to bash his head against the wall.

“I watched all your covers.”

“You what?”

“On YouTube. I took some time off from social media, so I hadn’t seen them. Okay, that’s a lie. I took some time off from your social media, because ever since we wrapped, I had been kind of borderline Instagram-stalking you, and I needed to stop. I tried to get over you. I tried so hard, but you’re everywhere. And today I gave up on trying to get over you, because I don’t think I can.”

Grantaire wants to strangle something. He backs away from Enjolras, running his hands through his hair.

“No. You don’t get to do this. You can’t just turn up out of nowhere and claim to be the one who’s been hurting all along. You went silent on me, and you don’t get to show up here with no warning and expect me to reward you with some prize for realizing that you had your head up your ass. I don’t care about your conveniently dramatic realization. I have at least enough self-respect not to fall at your feet groveling for whatever scraps you deign to toss my way.”

He pauses for breath, fully expecting Enjolras to respond with his usual fervor, but the reply doesn’t come. The chance to clear the air is right in front of him, and he is damn well going to take it.

“I know you believe in stories and symbolism and the big dramatic gesture and all that shit, but we’re not in character right now. This isn’t a set; this is my house. No one is going to yell ‘cut,’ the lighting sucks, and we don’t get our character arcs neatly wrapped up in three acts. This isn’t one of your stories, Enjolras. You don’t get to edit it, you don’t get another take.”

“Do I get a sequel?”

“Sequels are always subpar attempts to recreate the first thing. Usually they just sully the memory and experience of what made the original good in the first place.”

“And yet you’ve made more sequels than I’ve made movies.”

“Exactly. I have a lot of experience with how shitty they are.”

“I have so many refutations, but I really don’t want to change the subject.”

“Fine. We’ll save that argument for another day, assuming you don’t disappear again. But seriously, what rhetorical knots did you have to tie yourself into to think that you had this grand, unrequited thing going on? That is one hell of a martyr complex. How fucking clueless do you have to be to miss the fact that I caught feelings early, and I caught feelings hard.”

“I was a clueless idiot. I freely admit that.”

“Why did you walk away? I was pining so hard, and I’m not that good of an actor.”

Enjolras smiles sadly. “First of all, you are a much better actor than you want everyone to think you are. Second, why didn’t you say something?”

“Right. Word-vomit my feelings to someone who dropped me like a hot potato every time Courfeyrac said ‘cut,’ someone who made it abundantly clear that he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with me, someone who was so obsessed with this movie changing the world that it had to be perfect, so there was no room for, you know, the humanity of the people doing the work.”

“I know. That was my way of trying to keep myself from falling into the abyss.”

“The abyss? Really?” Grantaire scoffs.

“You know how much this movie matters to me. But the lines started to blur. That has never happened to me before, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I thought the way to give my best performance was to stay away from you, as if that would prevent me—me, not Tom—from falling in love with you. You, not Eddie. I thought it would work. It didn’t. And not only did it not work, but I hurt you. And I’m sorry.”

It takes a while for the words to sink in.

Enjolras’ fingers brush against the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt, and it’s simultaneously overwhelming and not enough.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras repeats. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but I wasn’t.”

“No fucking shit. I have no idea what to do with you. You just disappeared, like this—like I—didn’t matter at all. Like it wasn’t worth explaining. Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you write? It wasn’t over for me.”

Enjolras takes another step toward Grantaire. Their foreheads and noses are almost touching—Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ breath hitting his skin in warm waves that he wants to lean into, absorb.

“It wasn’t over,” Enjolras says in a voice that can only be described as a growl. “It still isn’t over.”

Some part of Grantaire’s brain registers how completely ridiculous it is that Enjolras just quoted The Notebook at him, and he should be insulted, but he doesn’t care, because Enjolras surges forward, and the only thing that matters is that Enjolras is kissing him.

For once in his life, his brain cooperates, and instead of immediately reminding him of all the ways this could go disastrously wrong (and there are a lot), it just sort of shuts down and lets instinct take over.

Every movement, every noise, is familiar and entirely new. They’ve done this—well, an imitation of this—before, but this time there’s no Courfeyrac to yell “cut,” no Feuilly with his lightmeter, no fussing over lines, no Cosette attacking them with a comb and a can of hairspray.

This time it’s not Tom and Eddie. It’s Enjolras and Grantaire.